


Crossed by the Stars

by tintern_abbey (lyricalballads)



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: F/M, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalballads/pseuds/tintern_abbey
Summary: She knew he was dying, but she would never leave him. A morbid Skittery romance.
Relationships: Skittery (Newsies)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 1





	Crossed by the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on fanfiction.net on 05/04/2012 and is based on the 1992 movie.

He lounged on his bed at seven o'clock in the evening, one suspender hanging off his shoulder while he read the paper. He'd barely touched the bowl of soup she brought him and now it sat on the bedside table, steadily growing cold, but she wouldn't force him to eat it. Instead she sat in a battered old chair, a leftover relic from the previous tenant, and tried not to wince as he dropped his paper and scrambled for a handkerchief. The room's silence was interrupted by the coughs that racked his body, again and again, and she knew the handkerchief would be spotted with blood before long.

"You want some water?" she asked.

He coughed one last time, then looked at her through watery eyes and shook his head. "Nah. I'll be all right."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't worry about it."

But she _did_ worry about it. They never discussed the blood on his handkerchiefs or his loss of appetite, as if the problem didn't exist, but she knew he was dying. She knew from the way he coughed for painful seconds on end. The way he took her out to eat and ordered nothing for himself. The way he burned with heat that had nothing to do with the weather.

He was dying, plain and simple, but she couldn't leave him.

She set down her needlepoint and removed the pins from her hair until her curls hung past her shoulders. He was absorbed in his paper again, eyes fixed on fresh newsprint, while she removed her boots and rose from her chair. Slowly, she tread across the wooden floorboards to his bed.

"Skittery." His name was a plea on her lips.

"What are ya doin'?" asked Skittery, peering at her over the top of his paper.

"What do you _think_ I'm doing?" she asked. "I don't come here so I can stare at you all night. Now put away that silly paper."

She knew he was dying, but she wouldn't let him go.

The paper slipped to the floor and she settled in his lap, breathing in the scent of cigarettes, gin, and newsprint that always clung to him. Who knew how long that scent would last? He kissed her, burying one of his hands into her mass of loose curls, and she tried not to think of how many kisses she would get before the end. She wanted to enjoy him while she could and held back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

"Why do ya stay with me?" Skittery murmured into her ear.

She forced a smile on her lips and played with the suspender that had fallen off his shoulder. "You shouldn't question a good thing, Skittery."

"But really, why do ya stay with me? I drink too much and can't hold down a job half the time. A girl like you could do better than a lousy bastard like me."

"A girl like me has a weakness for lousy bastards."

He kissed her again and she forgot about red-spotted handkerchiefs, letting him ease her onto her back. "Then I'm the luckiest bastard alive," he said as he undid his trousers. "And I don't deserve ya."

She knew her life would go on without him. She would continue to work in the flower shop, perhaps meet another man without a penny in his pockets and eyes that tugged at her heart. But she could never forget _this_ particular man, the one who taught her to feel alive before the coughs arrived and his appetite faded. Her stockings and drawers ended up on the floorboards, followed by his heavy work shoes, and her curls spilled across his pillow as he settled on top of her.

She wanted to forget that he was dying, just for this moment.

His hands, roughened from a variety of odd jobs, touched her gently and she tried not to cry. His lips, a little bit chapped, kissed her mouth, her face, her neck. She kept her eyes closed, letting herself drift from the harsh reality of rusted bed springs, peeling wallpaper, and handkerchiefs dotted with blood. By the time he rolled off her and reached for a cigarette from the bedside table, she couldn't hold back the tears anymore and wiped at her eyes, feeling like a fool for weeping over something that hadn't even happened.

"Did I hurt ya?" asked Skittery, frowning at her in concern.

"No," she said, leaning back against the pillows. "I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me. I hurt ya, didn't I?"

She shook her head and pulled him against her for another kiss, using one hand to deftly pluck the cigarette from his fingers. "You shouldn't smoke."

"I know."

He rolled onto his back and shut his eyes, while she did the same and wished she could spend every night like this, from now until eternity. She never bothered to ask Skittery why they didn't get married. She knew that if she married him, she would be widowed within months, maybe a year if she was lucky, and the money spent on a wedding wouldn't be worth it.

Not that she cared about money. She could have had her pick of respectable men who dropped by the flower shop to buy gifts for their mothers, sisters, and aunts, but instead she was drawn to Skittery, who had holes in his trousers and worked for pennies. How her family would despair if she _did_ marry a man who spent his boyhood in a lodging house, hawking papers just to eat every day. A man who hadn't seen his mother since the day she abandoned him, who didn't even know who his own father was.

But no, she wouldn't marry Skittery, even if he asked her to. She wouldn't enter a union that was doomed to fall apart.

She sighed under her breath and gently prodded Skittery, who had remained stationary for the last several minutes. "You awake?" she asked.

Skittery didn't move. She couldn't even hear him breathe.

She tried to swallow her fear and shook him by the shoulder, silently praying that he would respond. "Skittery."

At last he opened his eyes and gave her a tired smile. "Is it mornin' already?" he joked.

But she didn't reply and scooted close to him, savoring the beat of his heart and the slow sound of his breath. She was lucky—so very, very lucky—to have him in this moment, and held onto his hand as if the simple act would tie him to her forever.

She might not be so lucky next time.


End file.
